


Seeing is Believing

by rook_fern



Series: Devil's Doctor [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Forever (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, possible Mortinez, post-season 1 (Forever)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-08-11 12:54:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7893262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rook_fern/pseuds/rook_fern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Henry Morgan was never a religious man. The Devil was never anything more than a story or a fabled tale. That was the truth, at least, until he came face to face with the Devil himself.</p>
<p>When a police officer of the 11th precinct is murdered in the middle of Hell's Kitchen, Henry is forced to return to a part of New York City he hasn't set foot in for many decades. To make matters worse, the city's personal vigilante has taken a keen interest in the murder case, and Fate seems driven on making the doctor cross paths with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Corpses and Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been a very obtrusive idea in my mind for a few weeks now, but I have just recently had the time and creativity to actually put it into writing. I will attempt to update this story every week or so, but with school and everything else that life has to offer, there is no solid schedule. Most future chapters should be longer than this one, but again, this may vary depending on how motivated I feel.
> 
> All of that being said, I hope you enjoy this fic I have written. Feel free to comment what you thought of it; I love hearing feedback. Happy reading!

     Henry cast suspicious glances down the alleyways as he passed them; cold air seemed to funnel through them, making him shiver. He’d never had the best experiences while in Hell’s Kitchen, and he usually made sure to steer clear of the place. However, duty called.

     On a normal occasion, the precinct stationed in Hell’s Kitchen would handle the homicides that happened in their city. But then again, nothing was ever normal. A body had been found hidden behind a dumpster, bloody and beaten. It was one of their own, an officer of the 11th precinct. Many hasty phone calls had been made, and Henry had been ordered by a very grumpy Lieutenant Reece to report to the scene of the crime. And there he was, walking down the street in his least favorite part of New York City.

     A quick glance at the nearest street sign told him that the crime scene was nearby, and soon he saw Jo faced with her back to him. Remaining silent, he walked up beside her; Jo started at his sudden appearance, but her face morphed into a look of confusion and slight concern at his unusual silence. “Hey, Henry,” She greeted, “Everything alright?”

     The doctor blinked and turned his attention from where he had been watching officers swarm around the body, settling it on Jo. “Yes, sorry, Jo. This place just brings up some less-than-pleasant memories.” He explained with a tight smile.

     The detective took a moment to respond, and Henry could see that she was trying to figure out what horrible part of his past he was referring to. “Oh, sorry. We can call Lucas in; you don’t have to be here.”

     Persistently, Henry shook his head. “No, it’s quite alright, Jo. I’m already here.” Without another word, he strode forward and crouched beside the body. His eyes raked over the prone figure, taking in the small lacerations on the officer’s face and the pallid bruise on the side of his neck. “Do we know what he was doing over here?” Henry asked without lifting his gaze. Carefully, he lifted the corpse’s hand and turned it over; the man’s fist was clenched around something.

     “We talked with some of the tenants of the apartment next door. They said that he was pretty regular around here, visiting his boyfriend.” Jo supplied the information.

     Henry stood back up, brushing his coat off as he rose. “More like to-be fiance.” With a flourish of triumph, he presented the detective with a silvery ring that he had pried from the officer’s hand. “By the looks of it, he was stabbed in the neck with a needle, injected with something, and then dragged to this location. I’ll have to run a full tox report, of course.”

     “Of course.” Jo repeated with a definitive nod and a smile. “Hey, while we’re over here, do you want to go grab a cup of coffee? I heard there’s a really good cafe nearby. Besides, it will take them a while to pack everything up here and ship it to the morgue. We’ve got a little time to kill.”

     Henry wanted to object to the offer, but his mind supplied no viable excuses. “That sounds like an excellent plan.” He consented to the proposal, and after ridding himself of the dead officer’s ring, he tucked his hands into his pockets and trailed after Jo.

     The coffee shop was indeed very close, and the duo reached the glass doors in a few minutes. The rich scent of coffee and baked goods wafted through the air, making Henry’s near-empty stomach rumble despite himself. The two stood there for several seconds, marveling at the goodness that filled the air, before Henry opened the door. “Shall we?” He turned to Jo, motioning that she should enter first.

     Jo smirked and rolled her eyes. She entered the cafe and made her way to the counter, Henry following her. Inside, the smells were even more tantalizing. The service was as good as the scents, and soon, Henry held a cup of steaming tea in his hands. He peered over the rim at Jo, who was seated across the table from him, sipping at a mug of black coffee.

     “Mhm.” The detective set her coffee down on the table and lifted her gaze to meet Henry’s. “So, Henry, what’s with you and Hell’s Kitchen?” She leaned forward against the table, propping herself up by her elbows.

     Henry took a long sip of his tea. This had been her ploy all along; get him comfortable and then get him to spill his guts. He couldn’t help but grin softly at her cunning. Finally, he rested his cup on the table as well, though he still held firmly onto it. “It’s a long story…” He began.

     “Isn’t it always, with you?” Jo’s tone was full of laughter.

     Henry sent her a reprimanding glare, much like an adult scolding a naughty child. “Do you want to hear the story or not?”

     “Yes, sorry. Continue.”

     The doctor huffed under his breath, resuming his narrative. “The year was 1959, I believe. While they call it the Golden Age, it was far from it, at least in Hell’s Kitchen. I had just finished a house call and was set to head home when a couple of teenage gangs decided that they were going to pick a fight. I knew there would be injuries, so I decided to wait them out.” Henry paused in the midst of his story, his eyes, for a moment, growing distant. “Now, I wish I hadn’t. I’ve seen some terrible things in my life, and by now you would think I would be immune to the trauma, or at least numbed.

     “They were no more than children; the oldest couldn’t have been more than seventeen. I managed to save two of them, but the others… there was so much blood.” With another pause, he ran a tongue over his dry lips, drifting his gaze downwards. “I’ve never been able to look at Hell’s Kitchen the same since then. This is the first time I’ve returned, as well.”

     “Jesus, Henry, I--” Jo broke off, seeming deeply troubled by the tale she’d just heard. “I’m sorry,” she managed after taking a breath.

     Henry offered her a sad smile. “As am I.” Slowly, he raised his cup to his lips and took a lengthy drink of now-lukewarm tea; Jo mirrored his action. Five more minutes passed, and their conversation moved on to cheerier things. As their voices trailed off, they sat in a comfortable silence, finishing what was left of their drinks.

     In the lull of sound, Henry looked around the small coffee shop, curiously watching the patrons and other newcomers. A trio caught his attention, and in a half-interested state, he watched them. There were two men and one woman, the woman being blonde, as well as one of the men. The blonds were talking happily with the occasional outburst of laughter, but their third companion was keeping quiet, merely listening. Every so often, he would grin at something that was said, but most of his attention seemed trained on something else.

     As the darker-haired man turned, as he mostly had his back faced towards Henry, the doctor realized that he was blind; light reflected off of the red-tinted glass of the man’s glasses, and set beside him on the table was a folded cane.

     Oddly intrigued, Henry diverted more of his attention to the group, but he was broken from his concentration by Jo’s prodding at his arm. To his surprise, she was standing beside him.

     “Come on, Henry,” Her voice held a note of exasperation, as if she was repeating her words, “we need to be getting back.”

     “Right.” Henry agreed and stood. He cast the trio a last glance before following the detective from the cafe.


	2. Devil May Care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: There are some pretty descriptive scenes of gore in this chapter, as well as mentions of suicide. Read at your own risk.
> 
> Enter Daredevil in all of his red leather glory.

     Henry looked up from the body on the cold slab as Jo entered the morgue. He greeted the detective with a smile, one she returned as she came up beside him.

     “Find anything?” Her voice was a little more tired and flat than it had been during their coffee break, and Henry presumed she had just returned from breaking the news to the officer’s boyfriend.

     Deciding not to dwell on the depressing facts, he launched into a description of his findings. “As I stated earlier, he was indeed injected with an unknown substance; the substance induced asphyxiation, which our victim ultimately died from. However, there is the curious amount of bruising and blood that covers his torso. On a hunch, I ran a test, comparing the blood from his veins to the blood on him---”

     “--The blood’s not his.” Lucas, who had been idly standing by, blurted out suddenly.

     Slightly perturbed at not being able to announce the mystery, Henry shot the assistant ME a glare before looking back to Jo.

     “Who’s blood is it, then?”

     “That is the real mystery.” Henry said, annoyed that he wasn’t able to provide Jo with the necessary information.

     The detective gave a soft sigh. “So that’s all we have to go on? Unknown poison, some bruises, and some mysterious blood?”

     “Not quite. Lucas did discover something in his pockets that might help the case.”

     Arching an eyebrow, Jo’s gaze drifted to the younger man. “Oh, um. Yeah, here.” After searching around frantically for a moment, Lucas handed her a folded scrap of paper.

     Henry watched as Jo unfolded the well-worn scrap; inside, a street address was scribbled down. She looked up at the doctor, smirking slightly. “You up for an adventure?”

     “Always.”

     The duo left swiftly, leaving Lucas standing alone next to the yellowing corpse.

 

* * *

 

 

     The address belonged to a warehouse located in the northern section of Hell’s Kitchen. As far as Henry could tell, the place had been abandoned for years; most of the windows had been shattered and boarded over, and part of the building looked as though it had become submerged in the nearby river.

     A fickle thought crossed Henry’s mind, and he wondered, if he were to die, if he would appear in the East River as usual, or instead in the Hudson River.

     “Coming, Henry?” Jo’s voice broke him from the horrid thoughts, and he saw that she was already making her way towards the decrepit building. Henry followed the detective, examining the warehouse in further detail as they drew closer to it.

     “Any idea what could be in here?”

     Henry shook his head. “I do not have a clue.”

     The duo reached the warehouse doors, and Jo paused, forcing Henry to pause as well. “You are staying behind me.”

     Henry opened his mouth to protest, but Jo’s glare was adamant. “I’ve got a gun, and I don’t want to shoot you by accident.” She seemed to take the doctor’s huff as a sound of agreement, and the detective gently opened the door.

     It creaked on its hinges as it slowly swung open, revealing a damp, dark space beyond. The faint _plunk_ of dripping water could be heard, accompanied by the squeaking and scurrying of rats.

     Henry sniffed at the air, the scent of dirty river water mixing with the underlying putrid taste of death and decay. “Do you smell that?” His voice echoed strangely with the metal walls and water, despite the fact that his words were barely above a whisper.

     Jo gave a terse nod, her face displaying a muted look of disgust. “It smells like…”

     “Decomposing flesh.” Henry finished the sentence for her, and his face was a grim mask. He squared his jaw, and the two continued deeper into the warehouse.

     As they walked, the horrid stench grew much stronger, almost to the point where it was unbearable. The source finally revealed itself.

     Rounding the corner into the farthest room of the building - the one that was flooded with river water - they were confronted with a small mass of bodies. Each was incredibly bloated with water, and skin was swimming around each corpse in thick particles, like a soup of human decomposition. Patches of tissue and muscle had been carved away, some appearing as the work of rats and others as the work of a knife.

     The sight was a mishmash of vile filth, and it took much of Henry’s willpower to keep the bile that was creeping up his throat down. Beside him, Jo made a hacking, gagging sound and turned away, shielding her offended nose with her sleeve.

     “I do believe we have found why the victim was killed.” Henry stated, swallowing thickly. Jo nodded hastily and ducked out of the room, muttering that she was going to call it in.

     Henry chose to linger a moment longer, watching as if petrified as a large rat clambered atop a body and began to chew at the remains of a nose. His stomach churned, and he feared that he was losing the battle with keeping his breakfast down.

     Fortunately - or rather, unfortunately, a gunshot rent the air, making him whip around in shock. “Jo…?” Henry called out, adrenaline spiking his nerves. He got no reply in words; instead, another shot was fired, followed by the sound of a bullet ricocheting of metal.

     Dread seeping into his veins, Henry ran back towards the entrance of the warehouse. He arrived back in the main room in time to see the butt of a gun collide with Jo’s temple, knocking her out cold. “Jo!” He watched in horror as she crumpled to the ground and the hulking shape of a man loomed over her.

     His yell caught the attention of her attacker, and he was fixated with the bright beam of a flashlight. “Well, well, well. Looks like we got ‘nother rat sniffin’ around in the dark.” The man’s voice was coarse and gravelly, his breath crackling in the damp air.

     Instinctively, Henry raised both of his hands in surrender. He forced his words to be as intimidated and cocksure as he could, however. “You don’t want to do this. The police are already on their way.”

     The man gave a low chuckle, accompanying it with the cocking of a gun. “I’m sure. But all they’ll find is just ‘nother corpse being chewed on by the ratties.”

     Henry sucked in a low breath, trying to keep his cool; the man was taking his time, allowing him to watch as more men appeared from the shadows of the warehouse and scooped up Jo’s unconscious form. “If you hurt her, I swear I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch…” A sudden ferocity gripped the good doctor, and he took a step closer to the man with the gun.

     His threat only elicited another laugh from the brute. “Too bad you won’t be alive for that. I’d’ve liked to see you try.”

     The man raised the gun to be level with Henry’s chest, and with agonizing slowness, he pulled the trigger. The bright flash of light that emanated from the barrel blinded Henry long enough for him to not be able to watch the bullet plow its way into his chest.

     A fierce burning erupted viciously in his lungs, and he found himself lying flat on his back. Blood was bubbling from the hole in his chest and leaking from the corners of his mouth. All of the air in his body had escaped him, leaving him gasping. His eyesight was fading quickly, but he was conscious enough to see the warehouse door slam shut, cutting off all light except for the stray beams coming from the flashlights. Then those were extinguished as well with grunts of pain and the clinking of metal.

     Then there was complete darkness, and Henry lay dying with nothing left but his hearing. The screams of pain and fear flooded his mind through his ears. Then came the sound of limp bodies thumping against the concrete floor. Then there was nothing but the ragged breath of a single individual, controlled and steady.

     Then there was silence as the remaining life drained from him.

 

* * *

 

 

     The water was cold, and many bubbles tickled his skin. Gasping brought nothing but foul-tasting liquid into his lungs, so he fought his way with heavy limbs to the surface in search of air.

     By the time his head finally broke the surface, he was coughing and sputtering, trying to expel any water he had swallowed. His first task was to get to the shore; after that, he could try to make sense of what had happened.

     In time, he felt the silty shoreline appear, his bare feet scraping against jagged rocks and glass. Right. Warmth. Clothing.

     Henry’s eyes grazed the trash-littered bank, finding it terribly unfamiliar. His brow furrowed in despair as his mind slowly processed that he wasn’t in the East River. It was the Hudson River. He didn’t have any clothes stashed in the bushes like he did along the East River.

     Giving a long-suffering sigh, Henry plodded with dripping, chilled skin farther up the bank. He searched the shadows with his eyes, looking for anything that could cover him and get him warm. Nothing.

     The cold now had his teeth clattering together wildly, and his slow movements did little to get his blood flowing.

     Fate finally seemed to take pity on him, however. Searching through a dumpster in a back alley, he pulled a ragged t-shirt out, later followed by a well-stained pair of sweats. Henry decided he would rather not know what the smell that came from them was. He dressed as quickly as he could with his stiff limbs and made his next task acquiring a phone and calling Abe.

     Stumbling slightly from the cold and sheer exhaustion, he traveled up the abandoned street. However, he was warm enough now to shift his thoughts to what had become of Jo. He wasn’t religious, but he found himself murmuring a prayer that he had often heard Abigail whispering to baby Abe.

_What ever happened to payphones?_ Henry grumbled to himself; not that they would help anyway. He didn’t have any coinage.

     Hope was beginning to fade from him, replaced by intense weariness. Physically and mentally exhausted, Henry slumped against the wall of an alley he had somehow wandered into. The dirty bricks dug into his back, but he was far too tired to care. His feet ached, and they were lacerated with tiny cuts.

     Dying again would likely be a more enjoyable option that suffering on.

     Before Henry had a chance to contemplate how he was going to go about killing himself, a dark shadow fell over him. Had someone seen him collapse in the alleyway and come to help? Or was it a mugger that would help him be on his way?

     Only half conscious, Henry heard himself pleading to the individual, “Just kill me, please.”

     To his surprise, the shadow didn’t recede or fulfill his wish. Instead, there was a pause then a rough but soft voice saying, “I’m not going to kill you.”

     The doctor raised his head with difficulty, trying to catch a glimpse of who the man might be. His eyes drifted up to the figure’s face, noting that the man was garbed in red and black leather. The man’s face, he found, he could not distinguish, for it was shrouded in shadows; only a pair of glassy red eyes shone out at him. At the top of the man’s head, two small horns curled skyward.

     Not a man.

     The Devil.

     More words were spoken, but Henry was unable to decipher if they came from within his head or the Devil standing before him. _‘You’re already dead.’_


	3. Dead Men Tell Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *gently scoots chapter out* Hullo, I am back. I deeply and wholeheartedly apologize for the major, MAJOR hiatus that I didn't mean to take. Thankfully, I have settled back into the routine of school, and chapter-publishing should go back on track.
> 
> Please note that this chapter is set in Matt/Daredevil's point of view; don't want anyone to get confused.
> 
> Also, excuse any OOCness. While I am well versed on the habits and manners of the Forever characters, this is my first story including the characters of Daredevil. Although I have watched the entire two seasons multiple times, I am not as comfortable at writing for Matt as I am for Henry.

     Matt’s day had been going, surprisingly, quite well. For once, their office had been filled with prospective clientele, and, although the firm wasn’t swimming in money, the lights no longer went off at midnight. Things were actually running smoothly. Foggy and Karen seemed to share his feelings, and it wasn’t long before Foggy declared that it was cause for celebration. It was far too early in the day for any alcohol, so the trio settled for a good cup of coffee.

     Karen informed him that the cafe had only recently opened up, but everyone seemed to love the place. The positive reviews did not disappoint.

     The coffee smelled of rich beans, fresh and exotic; they were nothing like the watered-down remains that they had at the office. Karen and Foggy were locked in an amiable conversation, but Matt only spoke sparingly. He preferred to enjoy the good coffee and the warm atmosphere of the cafe.

     Every single time the bell on the shop’s door rang, he tilted his head slightly. Sometimes, the person who walked through the door would have a familiar heartbeat or scent; they were familiar faces around Hell’s Kitchen. Other times, though less often, an unknown person would enter.

     Karen began to note his silence and drew him into the conversation, and for the moment, he broke his concentration on the people entering and exiting the coffee shop.

     However, he drifted back to the listening, although he would occasionally laugh at something Karen or Foggy said. A conversation a few tables away happened to catch his attention, and he devoted his concentration to the soft voices. One of the pair was speaking with a rich English accent while the other was listening with rapt interest, sometimes breaking in to express a few words.

     It wasn’t the slightly-odd couple that intrigued him so much; it was the man’s story.  _ 1959 _ , he had said; the tale was fitting to be told from an older man, yet the speaker didn’t sound much older than thirty.

     To Matt’s slight annoyance, Foggy pulled him back into the conversation. By the time he was able to turn his attention back to the other table, the story had been finished. The man had shifted, and Matt felt his gaze land on him. Although he couldn’t see the man’s expression, he could feel every inch of him being scrutinized and examined.

     He was saved from the stranger’s study by his companion. She had risen and was prodding him into movement. She was a cop, he was able to gather from their short exchange. Before he could learn any more about the interesting strangers, they had left the cafe and were making their way down the sidewalk outside.

* * *

 

     Matt was thoroughly confused; something about the man who was propped against the alley wall didn’t add up. The heartbeat was the exact same, but --- it couldn’t be. The man from the warehouse had stopped breathing; the bullet had spiraled from the barrel of the gun straight into his chest. Death would have been almost instantaneous.

     Briefly, Matt’s thoughts flickered back to the altercation in the abandoned warehouse on the river. _‘It was the first few gunshots that alerted him. He was following up on a lead he had pounded from a drug dealer, trying to find the source of the newest drug on the streets._

_At the sound of the first gunshot, he started to make his way towards the old building. By the time the second shot was fired, he had reached the doors. A foul smell permeated from the inside of the warehouse, nearly overpowering every other smell. Half a dozen heartbeats were easily definable; curiously, two he could identify from his visit to the cafe earlier._

_As he scouted out the situation, he began to formulate the best way to handle the increasingly dangerous scene. The setting sun was casting thin slivers of light around the building, and most of Matt was doused in shadows. Still, the interior of the warehouse was adequately lit. That wouldn’t do…_

_A grim but devilish grin flitted over Matt’s expression as a formidable plan was pieced together in his mind. A sharp gunshot rent the air, and the grin slipped away. One of the heartbeats inside was faltering, too quick and panicked to be good. Someone had been shot. The following tang of blood in the air only acquiesced his assumption with a foreboding finality._

_He started into action, quietly entering the warehouse; the other unruffled heartbeats told that no one had become aware of his presence. Forcefully, he slammed the door shut behind him, plunging the building into darkness and removing any sliver of warmth that remained. Immediately, the heartbeats of the others spiked with adrenaline and fear. Then there were many small clicks and the faint hum of bulbs coming to life. Before any of the men were capable of pinpointing his location, Matt darted forward and knocked the flashlights from their grips. With a few more well-placed punches, kicks, and a few well-placed throw of his billy club, all of the men were out cold._

_In the reigning silence, Matt tilted his head, wondering what had become of the person who had gotten shot; had they bled out, or was there still a bit of life in them? He swept his senses out, searching among the many fallen forms on the dirty warehouse floor. Finally, he found the man - no more than a corpse by then - lying prone on the floor. It wasn’t for more than a split second, though. Suddenly, the dead figure was gone, the taste of fresh blood vanishing with it. Matt’s nerves were suddenly on edge, and he stiffened, sending his senses out further in search of the disappearing man. There was nothing._

_After a few more minutes of searching, Matt brushed off the lingering wonder and suspicion - at least for the moment - and crept farther into the warehouse. What had been going on there? The farther back he went, the stronger the pungent stench grew until he couldn’t stand it any more. He stayed long enough to discover, with surmounting horror, the mushy pile of bodies in the back room; then he turned and left the warehouse._

_The air outside, although not ideal given the polluted river nearby, was crisp with fresh autumn air. Matt took a few deep breaths to drive the horrendous smell from his being. Afterwards, he tilted his head; he could make out the wail of police sirens making their way towards the warehouse, no doubt alerted by the gunshots._

_By the time they were pulling up at the scene, Matt was long gone. He sprinted into the nearest alleyway with a fire escape, and in a few short leaps and bounds, he was perched comfortably on the rooftops. Once more, he concentrated deeply, all of his working senses crawling like little searching fingers through his city, intent on finding any information on whatever the hell was going on._

_It was several moments of patient listening before he found something irregular; a lone figure was making their way through the empty streets, their pace staggering and unstable. The rank scent of the Hudson River dripped off of them, as well as a few more odd odors from their clothing. Intrigued, Matt slipped a few rooftops closer, keenly listening for the person’s heartbeat. To his utmost shock, he recognized the heartbeat - from the coffee shop earlier and again at the warehouse._

_Matt’s face twisted into a frown of confusion; the heartbeat was from the man who had been shot. He had died - and then disappeared..._

_His thoughts snapped back to the wandering man as he began to mumble a prayer under his breath; his words began to slur quickly before falling into meaningless, exhausted murmurs. Matt listened intently as the man stumbled a few more steps down the street before turning into an alley and collapsing against the wall._

_Slowly, Matt descended from the rooftop and dropped down in front of the man with a soft thud. His shadow fell over the man, and the scraping of wet hair and skin against brick told him that the man was aware of him. Questions, vicious questions, bubbled at the tip of Matt’s tongue, but before he had the chance to speak them, the man rasped out in a tired voice slurred with an English accent, “just kill me, please.”_

_The request caught Matt off guard; he wondered what would make the man desire death, especially since he was already supposed to be dead. “I’m not going to kill you,” Matt spoke softly, though his voice was rough with his Daredevil persona._

_Again, the man shifted, and Matt felt his eyes land on him.’_

     The only man Matt knew who had cheated death was Nobu; the shivering man before him didn’t seem like he would be with the Japanese, but uncertainty was running through Matt’s mind now. The next time he spoke, his voice was backed with steel. “Who are you?”

     The man was slow to reply. “Henry Morgan,” he finally uttered. Matt tilted his head, listening intently to the man’s heartbeat, but there was no lie to be had in it.

     “How are you alive?”

     Mr. Morgan’s heart rate spiked with the question, though his voice was surprisingly more calm and collected with an answer. “I-I don’t know what you mean.”

     Lies.

     “You were in that warehouse. You were shot and bled out on the floor, yet here you are.” Matt growled now. “How are you alive?”

     The man’s heartbeat sped up rapidly, and Matt could smell the faint traces of sweat appearing through his river water odor. Mr. Morgan sucked in a deep breath. “I told you, I don’t know what you mean.”

     Matt’s patience was coming to an end. He grabbed Mr. Morgan’s shirt and hoisted him upright before shoving him harshly against the brick wall. Pinning the man to the wall with one arm, he repeated the question with another growl. “I’m going to ask you again: how are you alive?”

     Mr. Morgan gave a light, airy huff that Matt realized was laughter. “If you saw me bleed out, how can I possibly be alive?”

     The man’s heartbeat had leveled out, though it still quickened with lies; however, Mr. Morgan was surprisingly calm given his situation, and Matt wasn’t sure if he really wasn’t that afraid or if he was about to pass out. “You tell me.”

     Mr. Morgan gave more soft chuckles, and anyone without enhanced hearing would have missed his utterance of, “maybe later.” The man suddenly went lax under Matt’s grip as consciousness fled him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, God, it feels so weird to put Mr. Morgan instead of Dr. Morgan... Anywhoodles, I hope you enjoy the chapter. As always, comments (and criticism!) are appreciated. Seeing everyone's comments makes me very happy.
> 
> Also, if there are any one-shot/ficlets you'd like to see between these two, I'd be happy to write some as a type of warm-up or a creative outlet. I am open to requests.


	4. Matt Is Done With Immortals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news! I only have 3 days of school left until Christmas break. I should get a few chapters written and released during that time span.
> 
> I still haven't gotten used to writing Mr. Morgan... Also, it turns out, I'm either really good or really horrid at writing manipulation/torture scenes.
> 
> Meh. This chapter was written in 3 different writing periods, so the wording and overall "feel" of the chapter may differentiate.

     Mr. Morgan was slow to regain consciousness, mutterings of irritation and pain escaping him as he lifted his stiffened neck. It wasn’t long before his eyes landed on Matt, and he began to pull at the bonds that constrained him to the post of the water tower.

     Mr. Morgan’s heartbeat quickened as he woke fully, soon thundering in his chest as he came to grips with his situation. More tugging at his bonds followed before the man slackened his frame; escape didn’t seem to be an immediate option.

     Matt tilted his head slightly, his arms crossed; his posture exuded an intimidating demeanor, though Mr. Morgan seemed mostly unfazed. There was a telltale sharp intake of breath before his prisoner spoke.

     “I don’t have anything you want.”

     His tone was level, but hints of panic shone through a little. Matt decided to remain silent, attempting to glower more heavily at the man. It seemed to work, as the man’s heart began to race more rapidly. Mr. Morgan swallowed audibly, his head dropping towards the ground. For several moments after, he was silent, and if Matt wasn’t able to hear his fast-paced heartbeat, he would have believed that the man had fallen back into an unconscious state.

     “Where is she?” This time, the panic in his voice wasn’t disguised, nor was the anger that bit at his tone.

     Matt’s brow furrowed in confusion, though the man of course couldn’t see it; who was he talking about?

     “What did you do to her-?!” With reinvigorated anger, Mr. Morgan tugged at his bonds, glaring at Matt.

_      His companion, the cop… _ Matt’s thoughts clicked into place. She had been at the warehouse when he had arrived; he had heard her heartbeat. He didn’t recall picking her out of the clump of unconscious bodies, however. What had become of her? Mr. Morgan obviously didn’t know. “You tell me what I want to know, and I’ll return the favor.” The man seemed so genuinely concerned over what had happened to his companion, Matt almost felt bad about using his ignorance against him. Almost. It could be the key to getting Mr. Morgan to reveal information, though.

     There was another lapse of silence from his prisoner, and once more, he fell back in defeat against the poll he was tied to. “What do you want to know...?” Resignation painted his tone, and more scratching sounds foretold that he was looking directly at Matt.

     “How are you still alive?” Matt repeated his question from earlier.

     “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” came the reply.

     “Try me.” A slight growl erupted from Matt’s throat, and he stepped closer to the man.

     More silence. Then, “at least tell me where she is.”

_      Damn it… _ Matt couldn’t risk giving away the only leverage he had. Instead, he held his tongue, striding even closer to Mr. Morgan until he was within arm’s reach. As if expecting what was going to happen next, the man stiffened, straightening into a fully standing position. Matt didn’t want to disappoint; his fist lashed out, the coarse material of his glove tearing across Mr. Morgan’s cheek. All he got was a grunt and the faintest whiff of blood.

     “Every time you lie, I hurt you. And trust that I know when you’re lying.” Matt gripped the man’s grimy collar and raised his fist, poised to throw another punch; slight irritation and frustration bubbled in his chest when the action didn’t even garner a flinch. “What do you know about what happened at the warehouse?”

     There was a brief pause of silence and then the soft sound of Mr. Morgan wetting his lips. His voice was quiet but truthful. “I don’t know what happened at the warehouse. My partner and I are investigating a murder, and we were lead there.”

     Though the statement wasn’t a lie, Matt’s raised fist didn’t waver. Once more, he asked the question that still plagued his thoughts. “How are you alive?”

     And again once more, the man refused to give him the truth. “I told you, you won’t believe me.”

     “Wrong answer.” Matt struck him across the face with his knuckles; beneath his gloved hand, blood bubbled from Mr. Morgan’s now-split lip.

     Bloody saliva dribbling down Mr. Morgan’s chin, he stumbled over his words; he’d likely bitten his tongue. “No amount of pain you deal will make me break.” Through his teeth, his words were hissed.

     A slight twinge of admiration and perplexity dashed through Matt’s mind; the man’s words didn’t jar his heartbeat away from its elevated state. It was no lie, or it was so strong a lie that Mr. Morgan had convinced himself that it was true.

     Either way, it seemed that his punches would grant him no useful information. Perhaps a different approach would loosen the man’s tongue.

     “You tell me how the hell you’re alive, or I can throw a few punches at your partner.”

     Something changed in Mr. Morgan’s disposition, and Matt knew he had struck a nerve. The man stiffened, and when he spoke, his voice was laced with passionate and livid anger. “Don’t you touch her, or you  _ will _ live to regret it.”

     Matt had found Mr. Morgan’s weakness; now it was time to push it until it broke. “You aren’t in any position to be making any threats,” he reminded the man, tugging at his bonds and stepping away from him. “Maybe you’ll feel like cooperating after I spend an hour with her. I might even let you listen to her pleas.” To punctuate his sentence, Matt turned and began to walk towards the door to the roof access.

     “You bastard! Don’t hurt her!” As Matt moved away, he heard Mr. Morgan begin to strain at his bonds once more. Again, fury shook in his tone. Then he went silent, his entire body and aura seeming to deflate. “I’ll…” Matt stopped in step, not turning yet. “I’ll tell you what you want to know...”

     With deliberately slow steps, Matt turned and padded back over to the slumped man. He crouched to his eye level, fixing his glare as best he could at the man. “How are you still alive, Mr. Morgan?”

     Mr. Morgan’s throat constricted as he swallowed thickly, and he drew in a shaky breath before uttering, “I can’t die… not permanently, at least.”

     Matt tilted his head, confusion and disbelief filling his mind. “How?” was all he murmured.

     Mr. Morgan seemed surprised by his immediate acceptance, and with another thick gulp and a licking of his lips, he answered, “I don’t know… not exactly. I was shot on my first death, and since then, I haven’t aged a day. When I am killed, I ‘reawaken’ in the nearest body of water, completely naked.”

     Matt surmised that he was telling the truth, and the ‘waking naked in the water’ bit did help to explain the ratty clothing that the man hadn’t been wearing earlier. His concentration flicked back to Mr. Morgan as he realized that his heartbeat was fluttering rapidly, fear and anxiousness radiating from him. “I believe you.”

     His words, however, didn’t seem to bring any comfort to the man. He was still tensed, limbs chaffing against the bonds.

     “And what of Detective Martinez?” Mr. Morgan sounded exhausted - even more so than he had been - from his revelation.

     His partner, Matt assumed. “She’ll be fine.” Mr. Morgan seemed to doubt his words, but Matt didn’t give him time to voice his concerns. He rose and made his way to the edge of the building. The detective would be fine once he found her. “The police will be here shortly.” Sure enough, the blaring sirens could be faintly made out, even by those with average hearing. “I’ll be in touch.” With his clipped words to stun the man, he leaped over the edge of the building and clambered down to the alleyway below, swinging off of windowsills and fire escape ladders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to imagine that Matt could be a very prosperous and ruthless lawyer if he ever desired to (but that would mean giving up being Daredevil, so that's never happening). I also believe that he would manipulate someone like Henry, someone who can't be broken by physical pain.
> 
> Also, protective Henry <3


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